


Stolen Moments

by beknighted



Series: Pages in the Wind: Orlo/Reader [4]
Category: The Great (2020)
Genre: Dancing Lessons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Life in the Court of Peter, Naturally Orlo gets another hug (and more), Orlo x Fem Reader, Self-Insert, Some Humor, Some Swearing, The Great TV Show, hulu's the great, moonlit walks, the great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24723697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beknighted/pseuds/beknighted
Summary: As the time for the coup draws near, Orlo and the reader find delight and relief in teaching each other some secret skill they'd always coveted._Orlo’s grace was of a different kind, all the more wondrous because it was a side of him you hadn’t ever seen—the two of you gamboled about the room as though freed from the surface of the Earth, at first playing at seriousness but then bursting into laughter, and you could barely keep up with him. He held your hand and your waist, and your skirts swirled and flew out behind you, and you made sweeping circles in the firelight.“Alright,” you said, gasping for breath. “I suggest an exchange. I’ll teach you draw if you’ll teach me to dance.”“Certainly, but it hardly seems fair. I shall have an accomplished teacher, and you a poor one.”“On the contrary,” you said, “there seems to be no end to your talents, sir.”
Relationships: Orlo/Reader
Series: Pages in the Wind: Orlo/Reader [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771351
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	Stolen Moments

You knew that Orlo didn’t particularly care for Catherine’s lover, Leo. The former had adopted a sort of ruffled air around the latter, at your vital meetings in particular, and you realized that Orlo felt again that sting of inadequacy that so plagued him in the court. Leo’s charm and ease with Catherine meant that the rest of us—perhaps by Orlo’s estimation, anyway—had become less co-conspirators with the Empress, and more unwilling voyeurs. Not that either of you could judge them their adoration. Besides, you couldn’t help but like Leo’s nihilistic cheerfulness, and in him you recognized a kindred spirit: someone whose mind was also filled with the green light of interlaced leaves.

Anyway, Leo was at least partially responsible for a bright episode in the life of risk and intrigue you now shared with Orlo, a moment of respite before the real trouble at last arrived. One that you remembered fondly in the days to come. 

In the old theatre, where the light was always dim and filled with a thick, musty smell that promised quiet, it transpired one evening that Orlo, Leo, and you had all arrived some minutes before the others. At first, you regretted that it had not been you and Orlo alone, meeting each other in the pooled candlelight from the hall beyond, perhaps removing yourselves to a deeper shadow where, with soft and meandering touches, you could address that pleasant tension between you, a tension grown stronger and more demanding as the danger grew as well. Instead, Leo smiled up at both of you, sitting cross-legged on the smooth floor, reeking slightly of drink and half-intent on his drawing. You hadn’t really taken much notice of his art until now. 

“That’s lovely,” you said. It was dark, but you could discern that it was a landscape, a rough sketch of hills and fields and chimneys, abstract and yet ripe with atmosphere, as though you could step into it. In the foreground, small, but recognizably upright, was a woman with light hair. 

“And here I was thinking you were limited to spiteful caricatures,” said Orlo.

Cheeky. It crossed your mind to pinch him, but you never laid a hand on that man that wasn’t gentle—unless it wasn’t, but that was a diligent and rigorous art for elsewhere. But you must collect your thoughts: Leo seemed to be thinking up a rebuttal. 

His grin only broadened. “Are you an artist yourself, Count?” 

“Not at all,” said Orlo. “I was encouraged to direct my studies towards more constructive ends. Not that I didn’t want to be,” he added suddenly, as though possessed by a sheepishness at having mocked Leo so openly. 

“Is that so?” you said, raising an eyebrow. 

Orlo looked sideways at you, like he regretted bringing it up. “I seem to remember, as a child, scribbling with charcoal on the stones in the courtyard. A failed experiment, of course. I made only scant monstrosities." 

“Nonsense!” said Leo. “If your hands were as steady as your bureaucratic wit, I think you could produce masterpieces worthy of Catherine’s gallery.” 

“A high compliment from such an artistic genius, albeit entirely baseless.” 

“Nonsense,” Leo said again, and gestured to you with gently splayed fingers. “You clearly have an eye for beauty.” 

Orlo cleared his throat and dropped his head a little, and the sound of your laughter echoed perhaps a little too loud in the empty theatre. You appreciatively twined your arm through Orlo’s, looking down at the man you had once thought was a belligerent spy. “Careful, Leo. Are you ever going to come to one of our meetings sober?” 

“If I did,” he said, penciling in some clouds above the rolling hills, “it would be a great detriment to our planning. I fear you would all be lost without my _invaluable_ wisdom.” 

Catherine and the others arrived soon thereafter, and the meeting proceeded as normal, if a little more solemn than usual. Your laughter and sarcastic good cheer were dulled at once by the blunt enormity of what still had to be accomplished, and it did not escape anyone that Catherine’s face was pale tonight, as though she had not slept or eaten. Your mind was meticulously filled with names, estates, regions in the north, important hours, phrases for audiences that did not yet exist, so long refined and rehearsed that they began to sound melodic, like songs or chants. As ever, Orlo’s gaze returned often to you, and when you spoke of the other ladies of the court and the remarkable progress in the ideas they were sowing with their counterparts (ideas from your own lips), you realized there was a distinct gleam of pride. You wondered if that was how you looked whenever he opened his mouth. Probably. Perhaps you were not so good at discretion as you thought.

You thought of Leo’s smudged but tranquil landscape. You thought of a little Orlo, a boy with dark hair and serious eyes, getting his hands dirty from the charcoal. Perhaps trying to etch the shape of a person, or a crocus flower, onto the stone, his lips in a tight line as he concentrated. You weren’t sure why, but the image glowed in your mind, imposed onto the brewing of plans and the making of allies. It wouldn’t leave you. 

Before you went to bed, you managed to convince Orlo to walk with you under the stars for a few minutes, for it was a rare warm night, and it had rained recently, clearing the air and your mind for a little while. He shook his head, smiling fondly, as you took off your shoes and swung them at your side, walking over the wet grass in stockinged feet. You ignored the whisper in your mind that accused you of stealing precious moments with him in case something went wrong—because certainly nothing would go wrong. All that you dreamed of was within reach. Peace, and happiness. 

“What are you smiling about?” Orlo asked, looking up at the lights of the palace, which shone in the darkness in a thousand golden points, like constellations of their own. 

“You,” you said. “I didn’t know you liked art.” 

“Of course I like art. What do you take me for? A tasteless wretch?” 

You laughed, and clasped his hand in yours. “Hardly! I just wasn’t aware there was something I might be able to teach you.” 

“I think I may be a lost cause in that regard,” said Orlo, and he squeezed your hand. “Although I do believe you have already instructed me in several exceedingly fine arts, which I could list, if you would like.”

The moonlight was weak tonight, smothered in a few stray clouds, but it was light enough to read Orlo’s face, which was always so plain and so dear to you, every furrowed brow or pursed lip speaking without speaking. Right now, he was relaxed, and there was only that soft adoration that you recognized in Catherine and Leo’s shared glances. You realized that Orlo was also storing up warm moments such as these, under the wind and sky, pressed against you, to give him courage. You loved him for it. 

When you were back in his rooms, leaving light footprints from the damp lawn on the floor, you brought out from your wooden chest of belongings a worn leather book. You felt Orlo’s warm breath on your cheek and neck as he bent over you to see what it was, unconsciously tilting his head to the side, as he did when confronted with an interesting rhetorical document. 

“You did these?” he said, absently straightening his spectacles. He had by now whisked the book from your hands, and was thumbing through it with the lightest of touches. A carriage, a bouquet, the red cheeks of your childhood playmate and onetime servant, your mother’s hat, a delightful stump in the woods that had been overgrown with a city of mushrooms—these were your heart’s own windows, little self-contained memories that you’d once thought of as crude, now providing you a special pleasure to share them with your friend and lover, with whom you had shared so much but never this. 

“Yes,” you said. “Some of them many years ago. I drew anything I thought was beautiful or wonderful. The more recent ones are—ah. You’ve come to them.” 

Orlo looked up from your sketchbook. “You drew me?” 

“Of course. Apologies for the first few. That was from the first summer I met you, do you remember? I didn’t quite have a grasp on the subtle anatomy of faces at that point. Things are much easier to draw once your fingers have learned them by heart,” you said, flushed with reminiscing, and you realized Orlo was still steadily looking at you, perhaps knowing that if ever he did that for longer than a few seconds, you were liable to rush at him and kiss the air right out of his lungs. Indeed, the urge was strong. 

“You see,” you said, gently closing the sketchbook in his hands. “I’m no Leo, but I can try to teach you how to capture the precious shape of things—before they change or are whisked away into nonexistence. That’s the beauty of art, I think. Don’t you?” 

“Moments kept for all time,” murmured Orlo.

“Yes.” 

“And do you think you shall keep me for all time?” 

“There’s no stopping me.” 

The two of you had been paused in a state of partial undress, of open collars and loosely tied strings, distracted by the yellowed pages of the book, but now at long last you cleaved to each other as though falling. He’d slowly grown bolder and more attentive over the months, this night more than others, and he made short work of your corset. You snatched away his glasses before he could break them again, and he set down your book so it wouldn’t be crushed between you. Orlo’s lips and teeth on your neck were cataclysmically _good_ —the red marks were sure to draw not a few eyes and remarks, perhaps he knew it, perhaps he wanted it—and the secondary _oh_ of his name lent itself to rolling on your tongue and aching in your mouth, hanging in the air long after it left it in a drawn out cry of pleasure. Orlo’s objective seemed at the moment to be less satisfying himself than it was wresting all manner of sounds from you, and you obliged with abandon. When you found yourself on top of him with your hair and eyes wild, you returned the favor, holding him down, guiding his hands and his mouth to your breasts, lightly scraping his scalp as you roved through his hair, the rocking motion vaulting you higher and higher into the darkness of your own mind as your eyes fluttered back. Orlo’s arms gripped you, steadied you, and his nails dug into your thighs. He bit his lip, a low moan in his throat. Gasping and shuddering, you both arrived at the precipice and fell together, and his moan became a cry, became a whimper. 

When you rolled off of him, he was unwilling to allow space to form between you, even for a moment. He held you against him, and you kissed the soft skin of his jaw, once, twice, again, with the barest fluttering of your lips first, then your tongue. But to pleasure your body was never enough for him, for Orlo set to work on your mind as well—in your ear his soft voice whispered with the same rushing rhythm of one at worship, the only time he ever prayed, the silvertongue in his element—you were paralyzed by the delight of his words, whose spell you always tried to recall after but in doing so would lapse into a kind of daydream, and now, under their breathy influence, you were still _needing,_ still cresting, and he finished you with one hand, with the long, clever fingers of an artist in his own right. 

Sweating, breathless, you lay together in a hazy silence for a long time afterwards. When you woke in the night at some unknown sound elsewhere in the palace, you thought again of the drawings. Would it make him smile for you to teach him? If it would, you resolved to try. As a gift. You wanted nothing more than to give him that same intimate trust, that aperture onto your soul, that he offered you with his words.

You only hoped there was still time. 

As it happened, there was. Soon after, another episode occurred, this time in a more public fashion, that (however unpleasant itself) allowed for a pleasant and reciprocal sort of tutorship to arise. It involved the Emperor, and one of the ladies of the court, a cow-eyed bitch that had always bandied honeyed words with you but never acted on them. You’d once regarded her with friendly apathy, but today it blossomed into contempt: she embarrassed you in front of the very women you were so keen on directing and influencing. 

It was nothing more than a misstep in a dance, which you had only been drawn into because of an encompassing remark from Peter demanding that everyone join in. One misstep, and a cascade of events—you’d tripped up another dancer, and another as she spun, and platters of drinks were spilled, and silk frills stained. Your apologies went unheard in the chaos. Herself a victim of the spillage, Lady Nadka made a loud remark about how you danced as though you had hooves— “A relic of life in the barnyard!”— and the harsh laughter of the women drew an already entirely shitfaced Peter to you. 

“What a fucking mess,” he said, pointing rapturously at the dripping sleeves and bruised ankles. “I daresay you’re a hazard! I don’t see any hooves, but let’s have a dance and see—”

You found yourself spun from where you were standing, yanked to and fro in a fashion that was intended to make you fall, and after a few turns you did, your elbows bashed on the hard marble. You saw your wide eyes in the buckles of whoever's shoes were before you. At whose feet did you fall but Orlo. You looked up at him as though from miles away, wanting nothing more than to hold fast to him and not let go, and with great calm he bent to offer you his hand.

Peter got to you first. Unable to protest, for you valued your life, you were heaved to your feet and spun around again for the entertainment of the circle that had formed. You fell a second time, at which Peter hitched up your skirts a little with his boot. 

“Ah, shame, just normal legs,” he said, “albeit clumsy as fuck!” 

It was Catherine who intervened, a blur of blue fabric and poised smiles, and she no doubt drew his attention to some other hilarious aspect of events that he had not noticed, and the crowd moved off. You got to your feet, rubbing your elbows, scanning the faces. Punching someone in the nose would really help your ego and your nerves a good deal. You could think of several noses, but Lady Nadka’s in particular. 

Instead, Orlo found you, maneuvering you with utter casualness to the outskirts of the dancing until you were near the open windows. With some horror, you realized that your eyes had filled with hot tears, and you blinked them away. What was wrong with you? You’d suffered much worse. You’d been tortured for fuck’s sake. 

“You’re alright,” said Orlo quietly. “I’ve got you.” 

But it wasn’t Peter’s cruelty, or that pig Nadka, but the memory of your mother’s hair flying as she spun you, letting you stand on the ends of your feet, the two of you laughing and dancing on the edge of the orchard where the wildflowers grew, and she'd said you moved as though filled with the sky. Had you really been so tamed by the court, your spirits so battered, that you’d lost the simple grace you’d always thought you would inherit from your mother? Indeed, had you ever had it at all? It was true enough that you were sometimes a clumsy dancer, but it broke your heart to think that what little you possessed of her memory and image was gone. 

You were quiet. Ever watchful, his jaw working in silent anger, Orlo was never far from you for the rest of the evening. You almost wondered what he’d do if Peter saw fit to have fun at your expense again, but fortunately for both of your necks, you were left alone. 

“I loved dancing,” you said, not sure how to put it into rational words. “I suppose I was rather awful at it, but I really loved it. And they couldn’t leave me even that.” 

You were back in the relative safety of Orlo’s receiving room, slumped on his favorite reading chair, staring at the darkness beyond the window without seeing it. You supposed that many men would simply assure you that the whole scene was nothing to be ashamed of, to hold your blameless head up high and to move on with things, but you knew that the wellspring of Orlo’s empathy would not permit him to let it pass so easily. 

Right now, Orlo was intent on hewing the logs in the fire with a poker, heedlessly sending sparks flying up in flashing droves, but you knew he was thinking hard. “I’d always assumed you didn’t like it,” he said, finally. “You and I were generally spectators.” 

How to tell him that you’d never wanted to dance for or with any of them, with the memory of the wildflowers and your mother, your mother and father dancing in a dome of light, and all of it too special and sad to be thought of in this place that would be the death of you? 

When you didn’t reply, Orlo stopped harassing the fire and set down the poker in its place. He regarded you not with pity (another kindness for which you were grateful), but with that tight-lipped sincerity of a confidant. 

“I’ll tell you a secret,” said he. “I, too, love dancing.” 

You unfolded your arms. “Really?” 

“Yes. I’m too much of a self-conscious prick to do it in front of anyone, but—it is a very freeing diversion, when the occasion arises.” 

His formality made you smile. As your mind seemed to dwell on the golden past of late, you couldn’t help but think of fanciful visions of him in your parents’ many-windowed hall, where the forms of people moved like water, no one did anything but what they wanted, and the laughter was always at the expense of someone who himself laughed the loudest. 

“Dance with me,” Orlo said, and you were drawn from your reverie. He was standing in front of you, his dark eyes playful. 

“What, right now?” 

“Right this instant.” 

“But we haven’t any music.” 

“A true dancer will make her own music,” said Orlo. 

“Aren’t you just full of wise aphorisms!” 

But you stood, and you danced. 

Orlo’s grace was of a different kind, all the more wondrous because it was a side of him you hadn’t ever seen—the two of you gamboled about the room as though freed from the surface of the Earth, at first playing at seriousness but then bursting into laughter, and you could barely keep up with him. Firmly he held your hand and your waist, and your skirts swirled and flew out behind you, and you made sweeping circles in the firelight, all thought of the court vanishing from your mind. You only tripped on your own feet a couple of times. You wished there was some arcane phrase even wilder and more joyous to say than, _“I love you,”_ but there wasn’t. 

“Alright,” you said, coming to a halt and gasping for breath. “I suggest an exchange. I’ll teach you draw if you’ll teach me to dance.” 

“But you already can,” Orlo said, and he meant it. 

“No, I mean really dance, as though swept up in the music.” 

“Certainly, but it hardly seems fair. I shall have an accomplished teacher, and you a poor one.” 

“On the contrary,” you said, “there seems to be no end to your talents, sir.” 

As did all your laughing, amorous exchanges, this ended with you holding each other tightly, all of your happiness in this mad place contained within the bounds of your arms. His heart was still racing from the dance, and you wondered at how much you’d moved and changed each other: him with his kindness, his ability to be and contain both a pristine gentleness and a clamorous fire, and you with your impulsiveness, your will, your cleverness that was a match for his—two like souls that hummed in recognition. 

The stolen moments were thereafter lovelier than ever. 

Neither of you knew just how soon the balance of things would be upset forever, for better and for worse, but you borrowed each other when you could. You would sit in some arching corner of a colonnade, or under the greying trees where you'd picnicked together, marking the sweet florescence of your friendship, and you would select something to draw. A fountain, the capital of a column, a sleeping nobleman with his mouth hanging comically open, each other. You had yourself become fascinated by the length and elegance of Orlo’s eyelashes, which amused him—you drew them hovering just over his eyes, with the softest of pencil strokes. 

As for Orlo, you showed him how to draw the shape of things rather than the outline, how to shade the darker portions and leave the suggestion of light, giving sketches an appearance of depth. At first, as with most unfamiliar undertakings, Orlo was tentative. He held the pencil as though it would bite him. A few days of this, however, and he began to become more sure of himself, squinting in the sunlight and holding his paper up so he could compare the composition to reality. 

“I think I’ve actually done this rosebush justice,” Orlo would declare. “A shocking turn of events.” 

He wasn’t bad at all. His hands were unruly, bewitched by a nervous energy that never quite left him, but you believed that with practice he would surpass you. 

Best of all, however, were the evenings after supper, when the court would array itself gaily and pretend to be happy. The music would quiver and swell, and you would watch and listen, and whenever you wouldn’t be missed, you and Orlo would steal away into the hallway beyond and whirl in and out of the golden pools of light, Orlo murmuring words that helped you to feel the rhythmic heartbeat of the music. Waltzes were the best because they were slower. He reminded you of what you had so often tried to give him: a keen self-confidence that you had lost, but always been capable of. The two of you could shrug off that careful composure that had kept you alive, and simply be. 

One fateful night, Orlo surprised you. 

As had been the case the time you’d caused a disturbance with your clumsiness, Peter was in high spirits and demanded that everyone join the wheeling circles of dancers, which now formed lines and partnered with as much enthusiasm as each could muster. Bright strains of violin unfolded in the air. Orlo quite literally jostled your would-be partner out of the way, and before you knew what was happening, you realized that the two of you were dancing where all could see. Perhaps not with the most grace, but certainly with a radiant loveliness that did not escape the attention of the court. 

Although you had both grown more respected and influential as the political tides changed, you were still the odd ones out. Mildly humorous characters whose inner beliefs and loves had never been regarded with any seriousness. 

Now, you were conspicuous, and beautiful—and you liked it. 

You didn’t worry once about making a mistake, not with Orlo’s softly intent face so close to yours, and the music ringing in your ears. 

“They’re staring at us, Orlo,” you whispered. 

“Good,” he said. “Let the fuckers stare.” 

It always made you smile when such a gentleman as he was uncouth. Soaring, you felt all the eyes upon you, your enemies and friends alike, and did not stop smiling until the candles had been extinguished and the quiet of night restored, and still in your mind the music played on.


End file.
